“Confound the rascal!” said Frere, growing crimson.
“‘Remember me most affectionately to Sarah and little William, and all friends who yet cherish the recollection of me, and bid them take warning by my fate, and keep from evil courses. A good conscience is better than gold, and no amount can compensate for the misery incident to a return to crime. Whether I shall ever see you again, dear father, is more than uncertain; for my doom is life, unless the Government alter their plans concerning me, and allow me an opportunity to earn my freedom by hard work.
“‘The blessing of God rest with you, my dear father, and that you may be washed white in the blood of the Lamb is the prayer of your
“‘Unfortunate Son, “‘John Rex “‘P.S.—Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be whiter than snow.””
“Is that all?” said Frere.
“That is all, sir, and a very touching letter it is.”
“So it is,” said Frere. “Now let me have it a moment, Mr. Meekin.”
He took the paper, and referring to the numbers of the texts which he had written in his pocket-book, began to knit his brows over Mr. John Rex’s impious and hypocritical production. “I thought so,” he said, at length. “Those texts were never written for nothing. It’s an old trick, but cleverly done.”
“What do you mean?” said Meekin. “Mean!” cries Frere, with a smile at his own acuteness. “This precious composition contains a very gratifying piece of intelligence for Mr. Blicks, whoever he is. Some receiver, I’ve no doubt. Look here, Mr. Meekin. Take the letter and this pencil, and begin at the first text. The 102nd Psalm, from the 4th verse to the 12th inclusive, doesn’t he say? Very good; that’s nine verses, isn’t it? Well, now, underscore nine consecutive words from the second word immediately following the next text quoted, ‘I have hope,’ etc. Have you got it?”
“Yes,” says Meekin, astonished, while all heads bent over the table.
“Well, now, his text is the eighteenth verse of the thirty-fifth Psalm, isn’t it? Count eighteen words on, then underscore five consecutive ones. You’ve done that?”
“A moment–sixteen–seventeen–eighteen, ‘authorities’.”
“Count and score in the same way until you come to the word ‘Texts’ somewhere. Vickers, I’ll trouble you for the claret.”
“Yes,” said Meekin, after a pause. “Here it is–‘the texts of Scripture quoted by our chaplain’. But surely Mr. Frere–”
“Hold on a bit now,” cries Frere. “What’s the next quotation?–John iii. That’s every third word. Score every third word beginning with ‘I’ immediately following the text, now, until you come to a quotation. Got it? How many words in it?”
“‘Lay up for yourselves treasures in Heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt’,” said Meekin, a little scandalized. “Fourteen words.”
“Count fourteen words on, then, and score the fourteenth. I’m up to this text-quoting business.”
“The word ‘£1000’,” said Meekin. “Yes.”
“Then there’s another text. Thirty-eighth–isn’t it?–Psalm and the fourteenth verse. Do that the same way as the other– count fourteen words, and then score eight in succession. Where does that bring you?”
“The fifth Psalm.”
“Every fifth word then. Go on, my dear sir–go on. ‘Method’ of ‘escape’, yes. The hundredth Psalm means a full stop. What verse? Seventy-four. Count seventy-four words and score.”
There was a pause for a few minutes while Mr. Meekin counted. The letter had really turned out interesting.
“Read out your marked words now, Meekin. Let’s see if I’m right.” Mr. Meekin read with gradually crimsoning face:–
“‘I have hope even in this my desolate condition…in prison Van Diemen’s Land…the authorities are held in…hatred and contempt of prisoners…read in any colonial newspaper…accounts of cruelty and tyranny…inflicted by gaolers on convicts…severe flogging and heavy chaining…for slight breaches of discipline…I…come…the pious…it…pays…£1,000…in the old house in Blue Anchor Yard… stolen goods and watches studs rings and jewellery…are…now…placed… safely…I… will…find…some…method of escape…then…for revenge.'”
“Well,” said Maurice, looking round with a grin, “what do you think of that?”
“Most remarkable!” said Mr. Pounce.
“How did you find it out, Frere?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” says Frere; meaning that it was a great deal. “I’ve studied a good many of these things, and this one is clumsy to some I’ve seen. But it’s pious, isn’t it, Meekin?”
Mr. Meekin arose in wrath.
“It’s very ungracious on your part, Captain Frere. A capital joke, I have no doubt; but permit me to say I do not like jesting on such matters. This poor fellow’s letter to his aged father to be made the subject of heartless merriment, I confess I do not understand. It was confided to me in my sacred character as a Christian pastor.”
“That’s just it. The fellows play upon the parsons, don’t you know, and under cover of your ‘sacred character’ play all kinds of pranks. How the dog must have chuckled when he gave you that!”
“Captain Frere,” said Mr. Meekin, changing colour like a chameleon with indignation and rage, “your interpretation is, I am convinced, an incorrect one. How could the poor man compose such an ingenious piece of cryptography?”
“If you mean, fake up that paper,” returned Frere, unconsciously dropping into prison slang, “I’ll tell you. He had a Bible, I suppose, while he was writing?”
“I certainly permitted him the use of the Sacred Volume, Captain Frere. I should have judged it inconsistent with the character of my Office to have refused it to him.”
“Of course. And that’s just where you parsons are always putting your foot into it. If you’d put your ‘Office’ into your pocket and open your eyes a bit–”
“Maurice! My dear Maurice!”
“I beg your pardon, Meekin,” says Maurice, with clumsy apology; “but I know these fellows. I’ve lived among ’em, I came out in a ship with ’em, I’ve talked with ’em, and drank with ’em, and I’m down to all their moves, don’t you see. The Bible is the only book they get hold of, and texts are the only bits of learning ever taught ‘m, and being chockfull of villainy and plots and conspiracies, what other book should they make use of to aid their infernal schemes but the one that the chaplain has made a text book for ’em?” And Maurice rose in disgust, not unmixed with self-laudation.
“Dear me, it is really very terrible,” says Meekin, who was not ill-meaning, but only self-complacent–“very terrible indeed.”
“But unhappily true,” said Mr. Pounce. “An olive? Thanks.”
“Upon me soul!” burst out honest McNab, “the hail seestem seems to be maist ill-calculated tae advance the wark o’ reeformation.”
“Mr. McNab, I’ll trouble you for the port,” said equally honest Vickers, bound hand and foot in the chains of the rules of the services. And so, what seemed likely to become a dangerous discussion upon convict discipline, was stifled judiciously at the birth. But Sylvia, prompted, perhaps, by curiosity, perhaps by a desire to modify the parson’s chagrin, in passing Mr. Meekin, took up the “confession,” that lay unopened beside his wine glass, and bore it off.
“Come, Mr. Meekin,” said Vickers, when the door closed behind the ladies, “help yourself. I am sorry the letter turned out so strangely, but you may rely on Frere, I assure you. He knows more about convicts than any man on the island.”
“I see, Captain Frere, that you have studied the criminal classes.”
“So I have, my dear sir, and know every turn and twist among ’em. I tell you my maxim. It’s some French fellow’s, too, I believe, but that don’t matter–divide to conquer. Set all the dogs spying on each other.”
“Oh!” said Meekin. “It’s the only way. Why, my dear sir, if the prisoners were as faithful to each other as we are, we couldn’t hold the island a week. It’s just because no man can trust his neighbour that every mutiny falls to the ground.”
“I suppose it must be so,” said poor Meekin.
“It is so; and, by George, sir, if I had my way, I’d have it so that no prisoner should say a word to his right hand man, but his left hand man should tell me of it. I’d promote the men that peached, and make the beggars their own warders. Ha, ha!”
“But such a course, Captain Frere, though perhaps useful in a certain way, would surely produce harm. It would excite the worst passions of our fallen nature, and lead to endless lying and tyranny. I’m sure it would.”
“Wait a bit,” cries Frere. “Perhaps one of these days I’ll get a chance, and then I’ll try it. Convicts! By the Lord Harry, sir, there’s only one way to treat ’em; give ’em tobacco when they behave ’emselves, and flog ’em when they don’t.”
“Terrible!” says the clergyman with a shudder. “You speak of them as if they were wild beasts.”
“So they are,” said Maurice Frere, calmly.
Chapter X.
What Became Of The Mutineers Of The “Osprey”
At the bottom of the long luxuriant garden-ground was a rustic seat abutting upon the low wall that topped the lane. The branches of the English trees (planted long ago) hung above it, and between their rustling boughs one could see the reach of the silver river. Sitting with her face to the bay and her back to the house, Sylvia opened the manuscript she had carried off from Meekin, and began to read. It was written in a firm, large hand, and headed–